Oberon and Puck

by Helen Gray Cone

THE SONG OF SIR PALAMEDE.

“Came Palamede, upon a secret quest,

To high Tintagel, and abode as guest

In likeness of a minstrel with the king.

Nor was there man could sound so sweet a string.

...

To that strange minstrel strongly swore King Mark,

By all that makes a knight’s faith firm and strong,

That he, as guerdon of his harp and song,

Might crave and have his liking.

...’O King, I crave

No gift of man that king may give to slave,

But this thy crowned queen only, this thy wife.’”

Swinburne. Tristram of Lyonesse.

With flow exhaustless of alliterate words,

And rhymes that mate in music glad as birds

That feel the spring’s sweet life among light leaves

That ardent breath of amorous May upheaves

And kindles fluctuant to an emerald fire

Bright as the imperious seas that all men’s souls desire:

With long strong swell of alexandrine lines,

And with passion of anapæsts, like winds in pines

That moan and mutter in great gusts suddenly,

With whirl of wild wet wings of storms set free:

In mirth of might and very joy to sing,

Uplifting voice untired, I sound one sole sweet string.

Love, that is ever bitter as salt blown spray,

Yet sweet, yea sweet as wrath or wine alway,

As red warm mouths of Mænads subtly sweet;

Love, that is fleeter than the wind’s fleet feet

Soft-shod with snowflakes; love, that hath the name

And fury and force of swift bright shuddering flame:

Fate, that is foe to love and lovely life,

Yea foe implacable, and hath death to wife;

Fate, that is bitterer than the salt spray blown

And colder than soft snow yet hard as stone;

Fate, that makes daily fare of heart’s desire,

Being found thereunto a devouring fire:

Death, that is friend to fate and fair love’s foe;

Death, that makes waste the wolds of life with snow;

Death, harsh as spray of seas that wild winds blow:

Life, that is strangely one of all these three,

Being bitter as is the sharp salt spray of sea,

And thereto colder than the blown white rose

And soft brief blossom of unmothered snows,

And fiercer than the forceful feathered fire,

Fed as a flame with hope of heart and high desire:

All these I sing, and sound the same sweet string.

And as fresh-gathered leaves of bay I bring

Green praises to all dear dead lute-players,

Whom Pluto’s passionate queen holds fast as hers,

Yea all sad souls that have smiled and sinned and sung,

With whose gold-colored hairs and hoar this harp is strung.

And blame of the high great gods that do amiss,

Being cruel and crowned and bathed complete in bliss,

And careless if this world be out of tune,

And deaf to dithyrambs of bards that bay the moon:

And all perfections of all those I love,

Each bettering still the best and still above

The last this violent voice proclaimed the best,

And blown by stormy breath still starward o’er the rest;

And all large loathsomeness of all I hate,

Whose poisonous presence doth Caïna wait,

And better it were that they had ne’er been born,

I being dowered with hate of hate and scorn of scorn,

And shrinking not to name them newts and snakes,

Lepers and toads and frogs and hooting owls and crakes:

All these with ease of measureless might I sing,

And sound, though sheer stark mad, the same sweet string.

And many a theme I choose in wayfaring,

As one who passing plucks the sunflower

And ponders on her looks for love of her.

Yea, her flower-named whose fate was like a flower,

Being bright and brief and broken in an hour

And whirled of winds: and her whose lawless hand

Held flickering flame to fawn against the brand,

Till Meleager splendid as the sun

Shrank to a star and set, and all her day was done:

And her who lent her slight white virgin light

For death to dim, that Athens’ mastering might

Above all seas should shine, supernal sphere of night:

And her who kept the high knight amorous

Pent in her hollow hill-house marvelous,

And flame of flowers brake beauteous where she trod,

Her who hath wine and honey and a rod,

And crowneth man a king, and maketh man a slave

Her who rose rose-red from the rose-white wave:

And her who ruled with sword-blue blade-bright eyes

The helpless hearts of men in queenly wise,

And all were bowed and broken as on a wheel,

Yet no soft love-cloud long could sheath that stainless steel,

Her tiger-hearted and false and glorious,

With flower-sweet throat and float of warm hair odorous;

These sing I, and whatso else that burns and glows,

And is as fire and foam-flowers and the rose

And sun and stars and wan warm moon and snows.

Who hath said that I have not made my song to shine

With such bright words as seal a song to be divine?

Who hath said that I have not sweetness thereon spread

As gold of peerless honey is poured on bread?

Who hath said that I make not all men’s brains to ring,

And swim with imminent madness while I sing,

And fall as feeble dykes before strong tides of spring?

And now as guerdon of my great song I claim

The swan-white pearl of singers, yea Queen Fame,

Who shall be wed no more to languid lips and tame,

But clasp me and kiss and call me by my name,

And be all my days about me as a flame,

Though sane vain lame tame cranes sans shame make game and blame!